


Bet on It

by angel_deux



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, The Bet except it's a modern day bar bet and brienne is in on it, everyone knows the one dude with a weird pet, love that mark mullendore exists and has a monkey bc it translates so well into modern times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:15:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25765816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angel_deux/pseuds/angel_deux
Summary: Brienne isn't sure why she goes out to the bar with her horrid co-workers so often. She also isn't sure why she doesn't leave when they try to make sport of her, betting that she can't get a guy's number by the end of the night. She IS sure that offering to split the winnings with the hot guy at the end of the bar is her best option, and so she heads in his direction.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 95
Kudos: 636
Collections: Jaime x Brienne Fic Exchange 2020





	Bet on It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [miera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miera/gifts).



> This was written for the lovely miera, who prompted: Brienne's awful coworkers make a bet that she can't get a guy's number while they're out for drinks at a bar one night. Furious, she walks right up to the hottest man she's ever seen, who is drinking alone at the bar, and offers to split the money with him if he'll give her his number. Jaime, to his surprise, wants more than just to help her win the bet.
> 
> Out of 3 very good prompts, this one caught my interest immediately! I hope you enjoy!

If anyone ever asked Brienne why she goes out for drinks with Hyle, Ron, Ed, and Mark so regularly, she doesn’t think she would be able to give them an answer. It’s like she forgets, every single time they invite her, how horrible the experience always turns out to be. And then she’s actually _there_ , and she remembers, but it’s too late to back out.

The only one she’s actually halfway friends with is Hyle, but that’s using the term _friend_ so loosely it might as well be in a different language. Their cubicles are beside each other at work, so most of their interactions consist of rolling their eyes at each other about their older cubemate’s out-of-touch rants about how soft his son is. Sometimes they email back and forth about how annoying everyone else is. It’s probably not friendship by any metric but necessity. Like, if you strand two people in a hostile environment, they’re either going to band together or murder each other. Brienne and Hyle have chosen to band together, even though they wouldn’t be friends in any other situation.

It’s just...he’s the closest thing to a _real_ friend Brienne even has. Brienne sees her college friends so infrequently that Hyle sometimes feels like a necessity. Like at least she has _someone_ to talk to. Even if it’s just to prove to herself that she’s capable of maintaining personal relationships, she needs him.

Ron and Ed also work on their floor, but Brienne doesn’t have any of that same forced camaraderie with them. Ron’s “the hot one” in the office, which means he’s just good-looking enough to be obnoxious about it. Ed is the kind of guy who seems to think that humor isn’t humor unless someone’s feelings are hurt.

Actually, they’re all kind of like that. But Ed’s the worst about it.

Mark works two floors up, and his personality seems to entirely consist of the fact that he has a pet monkey. He sometimes brings it into the office on the sly to make people laugh at how cute it is when it sticks its face out of the top of his backpack. Brienne almost likes him, because it’s not the worst kind of personality to rest on. At least the monkey has a better sense of humor than Ed.

There are a couple of other guys who flit in and out, but Hyle, Ron, Ed, and Mark are the four at the center, and Brienne is almost always in their orbit when they go out for end-of-the-week drinks. They ostensibly treat her like “one of the guys”, which means they say whatever horrid shit about other women that they want and don’t seem to care that she’s there.

She never has a very good time. _Obviously._

Sometimes she’s more amused than annoyed at the end of the night, which is probably the questionable high that keeps her going back for more. Usually it’s an exercise in patience: trying her hardest not to react to their jokes and inadvertently draw their attention. Sip her drink quietly until they’ve moved on to more palatable topics. Randyll Tarly in the next cube is always a good source of entertainment that she can actually join in on, and she and Hyle usually get some laughs with their impressions. And it’s not like the others are _always_ being horrible. Sometimes they play genuinely funny drinking games. Sometimes they theorize about what the owner of the company, Renly, is up to on his constant visits to Highgarden HQ. As someone sort of close to Renly’s inner circle, Brienne usually has a lot to say in those conversations, and most of the time the guys actually listen. And when it comes to pop culture or video games, as long as she steers the conversation away from thornier areas, they can sometimes pass an entertaining hour or so talking about some new True Crime series they’ve all been binging.

Most nights, though, Brienne just winds up tuning them out.

The night of The Bet, she’s doing exactly that. Ron is on some douchey rant about something to do with a girl who turned him down the other night. One of those things where he says _I don’t care_ about a hundred times so it’s obvious that this has been bothering him. He’s talking about her lack of attractiveness, her rudeness, how she should have considered herself lucky that Ron wanted to talk to her to begin with. Brienne makes the mistake of speaking. It might be the two beers she’s already had, or it might be the fact that Hyle, Mark, and Ed all clearly _want_ to make fun of Ron but haven’t taken the opportunity to do it yet. Sometimes she falls into the trap of wanting to make the others laugh.

“She can’t have been _that_ ugly if you’re still bitching about failing to get her number.”

Hyle and Ed both laugh, which she supposes is gratifying in a way that makes her feel a bit sick. Mark hides a grin behind his drink, and his eyes twinkle a bit when he looks at her. Ron turns immediately red with anger—one of the few traits they share—and Brienne understands that she has made a mistake.

“I didn’t say she was _you_ ugly. I said she wasn’t as hot as she clearly thought she was, turning down my number like she’s got a thousand offers.”

“Maybe she was gay. Or dating someone else. Or just out with her friends. Or thought _you_ were ugly.” She _knows_ she shouldn’t bother. There’s never been any sense in trying to get through to these assholes, and yet that’s exactly what she’s doing, and she can’t seem to stop talking. What has gotten into her? “I don’t see why you have to complain about it all night if _you’re_ so swimming in women as you claim.”

Hyle and Ed laugh even harder at this, and Mark fully splutters on his beer, sending some of it dribbling down his chin. Ron’s the kind of person who likes to pretend he doesn’t get embarrassed but _desperately_ avoids looking like a fool when he can, so now his face is roughly as red as his hair. He takes a big gulp of his drink, plainly trying to marshal his thoughts. Ed laughs louder. He sounds a bit like a donkey when he laughs, and Brienne wishes that he would stop. All of it seems designed to drive Ron fully over the edge.

“Tell you what,” Ron finally says. He slams his empty glass down on the table, grinning widely. “I’ll give you the rest of the night to get a guy’s number. The _whole_ night. The place is pretty packed. You might find someone desperate enough.”

“Not interested,” Brienne says.

“Then shut the fuck up about it.”

“ _You’re_ the one who was talking,” Brienne fires back.

Hyle slaps the table and barks a loud laugh. Mark is fully giggling. Ed is wheezing. Ron glares at them all.

“She’s got a point, mate,” Hyle says. Hyle, of course, isn’t cowed by Ron’s glare, and it makes Brienne embarrassed that she _is_. Hyle has always had this attitude of easy uncaring even when _he’s_ the target of the group’s mockery, and Brienne wishes she could have that kind of confidence. She’s always so worried about causing a fuss. Always so worried about blending in. Maybe it’s just the several drinks she’s already had, but for a second, she wants to be more like Hyle.

Gods, what a horrible thought.

“Of course I have a point,” she says. “He’s been bitching and moaning all night about _one_ girl.”

“And I told you to get _one_ number, and you know you can’t do it!”

“What does that have to do with anything? At least I know my weaknesses.”

“And what is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“It means that Brienne could _easily_ get a guy’s number.”

Brienne turns to Hyle when he interrupts she and Ron. She can feel her expression, twisted and incredulous, and she isn’t surprised when Hyle laughs at it.

“That’s not what it means,” she says.

“Yes it is. Ron thinks he’s such a fucking prize. He strikes out more often than he scores, like the rest of us.”

“Fuck off,” Ron says. He’s gradually turning back to his normal color now that the attention is nominally moving toward Brienne, but he still looks wary.

“No, no, it’s true. Brienne is right: you have no idea how obnoxious you are. That’s your weakness. That’s why you strike out. But _Brienne_? Opposite of obnoxious. She knows her weaknesses, and she knows her strengths, and I bet Brienne _can_ get a man’s number by the end of the night.”

“Hyle,” Brienne warns. She feels vaguely betrayed. She’s not sure why; _when_ is she going to learn what kind of friendship she has with him? He doesn’t _care_ about her, just as she doesn’t care about him. Their friendship is entirely based around the mild amusement they provide for one another. Of _course_ Hyle is going to take this opportunity. He might even genuinely believe that she can do it. Ron might genuinely be the butt of the joke. But if she fails, he’ll laugh at _her_ just as easily.

“What?” he asks, not understanding. “It’ll be a breeze.”

“I’m not doing it. It’s…” Humiliating? Terrifying? She knows without a doubt that she’ll fail if she tries. Even two-drinks-Brienne doesn’t have the confidence to ask someone for their number without tripping over herself. She’s too awkward. Too aware of herself. She’ll turn bright red and squeak out something pathetic. No. She won’t do it.

“Let’s make it worth your while, then,” Hyle says.

Pretty soon, the whole table is in on it. These kinds of things happen a lot when they’re out as a group, but they don’t happen to _Brienne_. She’s never been the focus of it. These guys just love betting. They’ve turned it into a personality trait. They love to throw their money in the center of the table and bully whichever poor sod is the night’s punching bag into doing something stupid so that he can claim his winnings or endure the jeering of the others. She’s always managed to avoid scrutiny by throwing a couple of coins in the center of the pot and sitting back to watch whatever buffoonery unfolds. They probably rightly assumed that she’d never be up for doing something like putting _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_ on the ancient jukebox in the corner fifteen times in a row, or drinking an entire round of mystery drinks from the bar without throwing up at the table.

Five hundred dragons is what’s eventually added to the center, which is the most she’s ever seen go in on one bet. The money will go to Ron if she fails, which means _he’s_ in a good mood again, too. Hyle is particularly pleased with himself for thinking of it, and it’s only Brienne who’s more sour than before. She has said again and again that she doesn’t want to play this stupid game, but none of them appear interested in listening to her, and she knows she’s going to do it.

It’s not like they’re forcing her. They wouldn’t try to stop her if she got up and left. But they would jeer after her, and make fun of her, and they would laugh once she was gone. They probably already do that, so she’s not sure why she’s so allergic to the idea of letting them win now. It’s a pride thing, maybe. The fact that they all so badly want her to fail that they’ve thrown five hundred dragons in on a stupid pub bet. The fact that it all started because she for _once_ told Ron that he was acting like an asshole. The fact that she has tricked herself into coming out and enduring these idiots week after week and _still_ hasn’t learned her lesson. It all adds up to this big, swirling mass of _I’m not backing out._

“How long do I have?” she asks.

“As long as we’re still drinking,” Hyle answers, leaning back in his seat and making himself comfortable. Ron is grinning. He’s so ready to watch her make a fool of herself. Ed’s still laughing. The rest of their co-workers are pretending to be neutral while actually being predatory and anticipatory. “And by whatever means necessary. Flash them a little skin or something.”

“So they can be sure you’re a woman,” Ron adds, unnecessarily. Brienne feels her face flaming again, but this time it’s with fury more than embarrassment.

She was always competitive when she was younger. Mostly, it came down to sports. She wanted to play all the sports that they didn’t want a girl to play. She wanted to prove that she was good enough, that she belonged with them, that she could keep up. She learned young that she didn’t have the talent to blend in with the other girls, and she wasn’t good at performing femininity the way she was good at performing what everyone seemed to think masculinity should look like. And it wasn’t like the boys were any more welcoming, and it wasn’t like she had any less trouble blending in there, but at least when she stood out, it was in a way that was _good_. She was stronger than them. Better than them. She excelled at the things that they _wanted_ to excel at. With the girls, it was different. She just always felt like she was failing. She wasn’t pretty enough. She wasn’t delicate enough. She was clumsy with makeup and she could never get anything good to happen with her hair. But sports? She could do sports. She played a few sports with other girls—softball and volleyball and basketball when she was younger—but as she got older, she found herself out of place even among athletes, and she veered towards sports like football. Baseball. Sports dominated by men and boys, because she wanted to _prove_ herself. She was a fast runner, and she was strong, and she could hit a ball or kick a ball or throw a ball wherever it needed to go, and that gave her something to cling to. Something to work towards. It didn’t matter if the boys hated her for it. At least they scorned her because she was _better_ than them, and not because she was worse.

She feels that same spirit now, flaring to life after years spent dormant. As an adult, she has done her best to go back to blending in, but anger has brought that old beast out of its shell: competition. Drive. She _has_ to prove them wrong.

She downs the rest of her third drink, and Hyle slaps her on the back. It’s still hard to tell if he’s being genuinely supportive. Maybe he thinks she’ll split the money with him if she wins. Maybe he really does think Ron’s a twat. Maybe he just sees an opportunity to have fun at someone else’s expense. It doesn’t matter anymore. She barely hears what he says to encourage her. She just gets up and goes to the bar for another drink, using the opportunity to scope out her pickings.

The confidence won’t last long. She knows _that_ much about herself. She needs to make a decision and go for it while the alcohol and the fury are all mingling in her mind, leaving her in a perfect state to actually attempt this.

She feels sharklike as she peruses her options. Or robotic, like some creature designed to go in for the kill. She doesn’t see anyone whose number she would actually _want_ , so that changes the game pretty quickly. She doesn’t want to make someone part of the joke, and she doesn’t want to aim so low that she winds up getting made fun of for it while also making fun of someone else. She doesn’t want to hurt anyone. Her best chance is to find someone who might play along.

After a few rejected ideas, she zeroes in on the man down at the end of the bar who’s been there since she and the guys arrived. He’s attractive. Maybe _very_ attractive. He may or may not be the most attractive man Brienne has ever seen in real life. He’s sort of rumpled and unshaven in the way men can look when they’re having a long day, but he smiles his thanks at the bartender when his drink is refilled, so he doesn’t look like he’s in _too_ miserable a mood. He looks _bored_ , though, checking his phone in a way Brienne recognizes as _none of my idle browsing apps have updated and I have nothing to actually_ do _on the phone_ , _but I can’t just sit here alone if I don’t look busy._

_Fuck it_ , she thinks, and she makes her way towards him.

If the others at the table behind her are reacting to her choice, she doesn’t hear them. She almost forgets that they’re there. She’s nervous, but in the same way she used to get nervous before a big game, where everything is firing at once and she’s prepared to do anything to win.

She sits down beside him.

“Hi,” she says.

He looks at her. One eyebrow is half-cocked as if to ask a question. He picks his head up more, frowns, looks her over.

“Do I know you?” he asks.

“No,” she says.

“I didn’t think so.” He waits, that one eyebrow still slightly ticked up.

“There’s a bet,” she says.

“Okay.”

“A table of men back there.”

“Friends of yours?”

“Co-workers.”

“I see them. They’re not very subtle.”

“No. I imagine they wouldn’t be.” Brienne manages not to turn and look, only because she doesn’t want them to think that she’s giving the game away. “They bet me that I couldn’t get a man’s number by the end of the night.”

The attractive man frowns again. He’s slightly addled, slightly exaggerated in his movements. He’s been here for a while, and he’s on at least his third glass of what looks like whiskey.

“What?” he asks. “And you went along with it?”

“To shut them up,” she says. “And for five hundred gold dragons. Well. Two-fifty, if you give me your number.”

The attractive man is nearly gaping now, though a hint of a smile crawls across his lips. It makes him more attractive than the frowning.

“That’s a bold opening offer. You didn’t want to try and play the game before going immediately to bribery?”

“I don’t want to make anyone into a joke.”

His smile widens a little bit.

“Unlike your friends.”

“Co-workers.”

“You keep saying that. Strange place to hold a business meeting. And strange choice of activity for it. What is it you do?” When she refuses to respond to that, he laughs.

“Are you interested or not?” she asks.

“Oh, I’m very interested. This is the most interesting thing to happen to me all day.” Signaling for the bartender, he tilts his head wordlessly towards Brienne, who orders another beer on reflex, though she still doesn’t quite understand. He seems to pick up on it. “Unless you’d rather go back to your friends.”

“They’re not my friends.”

“And yet you’re out with them for an evening, indulging them in a bet they designed to humiliate you. If you’ll do this for co-workers, I’d hate you see what you’d do for your friends.”

She can’t stop a bit of a laugh at that. He’s _right_ , which is obnoxious. It’s obnoxious in general, the way he said it, but the obnoxiousness is ratcheted up a level by the fact that he’s right.

“I think it’s turned into a principle thing,” she says. The bartender puts her drink down in front of her, and the handsome stranger holds up his glass to clink against hers.

“Does this mean you’re in?” she asks.

“I don’t know. I like to get to know the people I’m getting into business with.”

“It’s two hundred and fifty gold dragons. It’s not a business deal.” He laughs. It’s a pleasant laugh, and not mocking or cruel. Amused. Still, she bristles. “I don’t see what’s so funny.”

“Nothing. I think I just heard my father roll over in his grave at that.” She must look as confused as she feels, because he says, in a kind of overstated voice that must be an impression of his dead father, “every time money changes hands, it’s a business deal. Treat them all with equal seriousness, Jaime.”

“I’m guessing you’re Jaime, then.”

“Did I not say before?”

“No.”

“Oh. Yes, I’m Jaime. And you?”

“Brienne.”

“Brienne. Nice strong name. Brienne. Stormlands?”

“Tarth.”

“Mm. Makes sense.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re very tall. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“It’s come up before.”

“They grow them big on Tarth, don’t they?”

“If by _them_ , you mean people?”

“I do.”

“Not everyone on Tarth is a giant.”

“Well, no. There must be a shortest man even in a colony of giants.”

“Are you drunk, or are you like this all the time?”

“Bit of both. Are you naturally suspicious, or is it the alcohol for you?”

“Naturally suspicious. And impatient.”

“Then it’s not working.”

“What’s not working?”

“My attempts to get you to forget your horrid friends.”

She sighs, but she can’t help the smile. She supposes she finds him charming. That’s unfortunate. She has a habit of underestimating people. Or maybe assuming that they’re going to be worse than they are. The whole reason she even works for Renly is because she assumed he’d be a total dick, and when he turned out to be only _half_ a dick, she was blindsided into agreeing to work for him. Which is _fine_. Renly is _fine_. But it’s a habit she has, of seeing the good in people who haven’t really earned it, and throwing her weight behind them without proper consideration first.

Plus, he’s attractive. This particular problem is made a _lot_ worse when it’s an attractive man.

“They’re not my friends,” she reminds him. She tries to contain the smile, but it doesn’t quite work, and she can tell that he sees it. Putting aside the fact that he’s probably not attracted to her, she’s pretty sure there’s something primal in men like him. It’s not about actually wanting her. He still wants to _win_ by charming her. Or something.

“No,” he says. “Not friends.” He turns and looks again, frowning performatively in the direction of their table. “They seem to have grown bored. They’re back to…I don’t know. Whatever it is groups of mediocre men do when they’re trying to posture at each other.”

She laughs at that, surprised at herself. It’s louder than she intended, and she covers her mouth reflexively.

“Fine,” she says, in response to another one-eyebrow-up look, this one with a delighted smile attached. “Maybe it’s the alcohol.”

“Or maybe you’re just not used to men being actually funny, with the group you hang out with.”

“Ugh,” she says, and now it’s him who laughs.

“You’re not _with_ any of them, are you?”

“ _Ugh_ ,” she says again, stronger, and his smile widens.

“I didn’t think so, but I figured I’d be safe. And I’m assuming you don’t _want_ to be.”

“No.”

“Pretty firm answer. Are you sure?”

She knows he’s fucking with her. He’s got this teasing little smirk, his tongue poking out at the corner of his mouth in a cheeky, charming way that makes him look younger than she thinks he is. He sweeps his hair back, drawing her attention to it. Long-ish and blonde, she notices, which is normally not something she’s into, but he makes it work. She takes a better look at him, since she’s apparently being held hostage by him until he decides if he wants to take the money or not. He’s wearing a well-fitted peacoat that he should have taken off about an hour ago, given how long he’s been sitting at the bar. She wonders if she’s keeping him from something. Maybe he was about to leave. He doesn’t seem in a hurry to go now, in any case. Maybe that’s flattering. She’s not sure. Maybe he’s just that drunk.

“I’m sure,” she says, belatedly, looking away from him. She can feel his eyes on the side of her face. Or she _imagines_ she can, because four-drinks-Brienne is apparently the kind of person who gives in to little indulgences like that. When she looks back at him, he’s still grinning at her. Maybe not as sharply as before. Her stomach swoops a little, because she’s a fool. “Though, who knows?” she manages to say. “Mark _does_ have a pet monkey.”

“A… _what_?” He laughs at that, turning to look again. “Which one’s Mark?”

“The one who looks bored, like he’d rather be at home with his pet monkey.”

Jaime laughs again. She likes making him laugh. She likes making anyone laugh, really. Likes having that kind of impact. She’s not really known for her wit, so any bit of encouragement on that front…

Plus, she’s only human. He’s an attractive man, and she has existed in the world for so long, aware of herself and her body and her looks. She’s long past the age where she’s agonized by it, or able to be so easily hurt by it. It’s just a fact of life: Brienne Tarth is tall. Brienne Tarth is strong. Brienne Tarth is not considered attractive by most people. But she’s smart, and she has a big heart, and she has a family that loves her. She is satisfied with those things. Has made room for the positives in her life and has learned not to regret the things that she wanted more than anything as a teenager. But there’s something thrillingly out of reach about Jaime. Out of reach and yet somehow, tonight, vaguely _in_ reach. It’s not like she pretends to be a body language expert or anything, but he’s smiling at her. Intrigued by her. Turned towards her. He was slumped at the bar in a bored stupor when she started her walk over, and now he’s engaged, open. It’s _thrilling_ , somehow. She understands why people get addicted to this feeling. Gods, she might even understand why Ron chats up so many women when he’s bound to strike out. If _this_ is what happens when you make an actual connection with someone…

“Ed,” she says, leaning into it. “He’s the one with the kind of pleasant, open face? He looks like a nice guy.”

“Mhm. I see him.”

“Cruelest one in the bunch. He’s quite funny, and he knows it, but he only knows how to be funny by being mean. It’s like playing roulette every time we sit down at a table.”

“Oh, very charming. I can see why he’s the one you like.” Jaime looks at her, gauging her reaction to that. She ignores him.

“And Ron, he’s the redhead. He’s the most attractive man in the office, if you ask him.”

“ _And_ if I ask you, I assume, which is why _he’s_ the one you like.”

“I’m sure he’s convinced of that. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“And you said the other man is the cruelest of the bunch? But you like Ron the least.”

“Ed _has_ a sense of humor, even if it’s a terrible one.”

Another laugh. Do men tally the ways they make women laugh when they pick them up at a bar? Does Ron? Brienne doubts it. Not like this, anyway. Like she wants to make Jaime laugh for _his_ enjoyment, not because it will make it any more likely that he’ll sleep with her. She doesn’t even _want_ to sleep with him.

Well, like. She _does_. But it’s not a _goal_ or anything.

“What about the one with the brown hair?” Jaime asks, suddenly. “He’s the only one who seems at all interested in what’s going on over here. I’ve caught him glancing your way a few times. Is _he_ the one?”

“Hyle? Hyle’s…” she hesitates and Jaime catches on with interest. That single eyebrow goes up again. The playful, cocky expression returns. “Fine,” Brienne finishes lamely.

“A ringing endorsement.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

“And yet he’s the best of the bunch.”

“By process of elimination, I guess. He’s all right. Ron’s the one who antagonized me. Hyle’s the one who actually made the bet.”

Jaime’s growing smile turns into a frown quickly at that.

“I don’t like him,” he decides.

“I think he actually thinks I can do it.”

“That doesn’t matter. He’s not _fine_ if he’s using you for sport.”

“That’s the kind of guy he is.”

“Which doesn’t sound like a good thing.”

“Well it’s _not_ , but he’s at least not the worst.”

She realizes suddenly that she is defending Hyle. Almost angrily defending him, actually. Leaning in closer to Jaime in her annoyance. Antagonizing this charming, seemingly decent guy because of _Hyle_. Maybe because it feels like she has to; in defending Hyle, she’s defending herself. Why would she be kind-of-friends with Hyle if he wasn’t at least an almost decent person? Why would she hang out with these people if she didn’t like them at all? Why would she do something like _this_ —something she would never do on her own—to impress them or show them up if they had no worth whatsoever?

“Shit,” she says.

“What?”

“I’m…I shouldn’t even be doing this. This is stupid. Why should I care what they think? I _knew_ that Ron was just angry that I challenged him, and I knew Hyle was just…being Hyle. Encouraging me for a laugh. Why do I care whether they think I can get a guy’s number? I’m not even following the rules. Where’s the honor in that? Paying a man two hundred and fifty dragons for his number so I can pretend I got it fairly.”

“Well, see, that’s where my insufferable father was right to be wary about transactions. We never made the deal. You haven’t even tried to pay me anything yet.”

“I have. You’ve just been stubborn about agreeing or turning me down.”

“I wanted to know the terms of the agreement first.”

“I told you: you give me your number, I give you half of the pot once I’ve won it. But I’m taking that off the table. I’ve realized it’s pathetic.”

“Aren’t you interested in hearing my counteroffer?”

“Not really.”

“Go on, ask.”

“Ugh. What counteroffer?”

“Five hundred gold dragons is a lot to spend on a single date, unless I wanted you to take me to an expensive restaurant, but that seems a little boring. Still, I’m sure we could probably make a bit of a dent in it, if we were clever enough.”

She frowns at him. Waits for the explanation. The laugh. The punchline.

“I don’t get it,” she says.

“I mean, we don’t _have_ to spend it all on one date. We can stretch it out over a few.”

“You want to go on a date.”

“I was hoping it would be phrased more like a question, but yes, I accept.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I think we’re both a little too tipsy and a little too tired to do the thing justice tonight, but you can at least walk me home and we can plan the date on the way. I’m only up the street.”

“Is this a joke? Or…or…”

“It isn’t.”

She would normally need more reassurance than that. She would normally not believe him at all. Maybe it’s just that the confidence hasn’t worn off yet, or maybe there’s just something open in Jaime’s green eyes that makes her believe him. Either way, she does. _Would Ron doubt it if one of the girls he was chatting up agreed to go out with him_? Of course he wouldn’t. Maybe that’s part of it, too. The competitiveness. The desire to see this through instead of wimping out because it’s so far out of her experience.

“All right, Jaime,” she says. She leans in. She watches the way his eyes darken. The way his smile grows. It’s real, isn’t it? He really wants this. Her own smile grows in response. “Where do you want me to take you?”


End file.
